


On the 9th Day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Nine Missing Minutes

by Mangokiwitropicalswirl



Series: The Twelve Tropes of Christmas [9]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 08:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9225896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mangokiwitropicalswirl/pseuds/Mangokiwitropicalswirl





	

Their path back through the empty corridors of the museum is quicker this time, both of them still a little breathless. Mulder’s almost running, his hand reaching back to grip Scully’s forearm as she struggles to keep up. In other times like this, they’ve rushed through dark places out of fear, suspicion or dread. This is so far the opposite, Scully can hardly keep from giggling. She feels like a high school girl, giddy with too much cheap beer, sneaking off behind the school to make out with a boy. It’s certainly not what she had been expecting to feel tonight when she’d shimmied into her form-fitting dress, smoothed her hair and fastened the strap of her shoes. But, like always, Mulder earnestness has surprised her. 

Before they make it back to the cafe exit and the guard station, he surprises her again. As they pass a dark alcove, he suddenly swerves and yanks her into the shadows with him. Before she can get a word out, Mulder’s mouth descends on hers with another deep kiss, the force of it pushing her back against the cool marble wall. She angles one knee back to steady herself as she wraps her arms around him again. Between breaths, Scully tries to protest. 

“Mul--”. He pulls her closer and she groans. “We should -- oh God.” He nips at the hollow behind her ear with little staccato kisses. Her knees weaken and the arousal she’s been feeling since their encounter on the bench flares up again. She runs both her hands up the flanks of his torso beneath his jacket, thumbing over the rise of his pecs and then sliding around to the top curve of his ass. She hesitates to go further, though her body is screaming to. Mulder groans as her hands stroke up and down the expanse of his back, dipping lower on each pass. Even through the thick wool of her coat, Scully can feel his arousal pressing into the top of her hip.

We have to calm down, she thinks in the tiny amount of reasonable space that remains in her brain. It’s all she can do, but she pushes back against his chest. “Mulder,” she breathes out with a sly smile. “We are going to get ourselves arrested.”

“Yeah, but so worth it, right?” His eyes smile as he angles toward her mouth again.

“I’m serious.” She tries to put more distance between them, smoothing her hands along his arms. “How would we explain this one to Kersh? Yes, sir, we were caught making out in the National Gallery, but it was for a case, we promise.”

Mulder sighs.

“We don’t need to give him any more ammunition to split us up.” Scully looks up at him, her eyes deep with concern. “Call a taxi,” she says. “No sense going outside til it’s here.”

Without breaking eye contact, Mulder reaches into his front pocket for his phone and dials. Together they make their way to the exit as Mulder directs the cabbie to pick them up out front. Scully flashes her badge and nods at the security guard as they pass through the doorway, resuming her professional facade and putting a few paces of distance between she and Mulder. 

“It’ll be here in 5,” Mulder says. They linger by the glass front doors awkwardly, trying to keep their hands busy, Scully nervously clutching her purse and Mulder balling his hands in his pockets. But she can still smell the scent of his aftershave from the heat of their kisses, and he swears he can smell her beneath hints of perfume and wool. Scully bites back a smile, her top lip between her teeth, as she watches Mulder shift uncomfortably back and forth on his feet, trying not to meet her gaze.

The snow has gotten thicker since they’ve been inside, and the plowed path up the steps is now covered in a layer of delicate white flakes. When the taxi arrives, Scully regrets her shoes for the third or fourth time that evening, but holds on tightly to Mulder’s bicep as they make their way down toward the street. 

“I could carry you, ya know,” Mulder winks.

“Oh, and that wouldn’t look suspicious at all,” she glances up just as her hand grips the railing at the top of the steps. At the same moment, Mulder’s feet slip out from under him. Scully yelps and narrowly avoids being dragged down with him. The momentum of his fall carries him down a few steps, but his hands don’t quite catch himself cleanly. 

“Scul---!” He cries out as his elbows bang against the slick marble and then the sick sound of a thud sends a jolt of panic through Scully’s chest. The back of Mulder’s head hits the ridge of the top step and his eyes slam shut.

“Mulder!” She crouches to steady him, bending her ear to his mouth. “Mulder, Are you okay?” She frantically listens for breath and checks the artery in his neck for a pulse. He’s breathing, but the blow has knocked him unconscious. She hurriedly smooths her hands over his hair as his eyes flutter. There’s no way she can move him herself. 

At the base of the stairs, the taxi stands waiting. Scully weighs the risks of moving him now against the amount of time it will take to wait for an ambulance and then urgently waves the driver toward her. 

“Help me get him in!” she calls out, slinging one of Mulder’s arms over her shoulder.

“Lady,” the cabbie protests, “I ain’t no ambulance. I don’t wanna get sued for nothin’.”

“I’m a federal agent,” Scully barks, the volume of her voice echoing off the cold exterior of the courtyard. “Just get over here and help me move him!”

The cabbie’s eyes widen and he obeys, draping Mulder’s other arm around his shoulder as they lift him lopsidedly toward the car. Once there, Scully eases him into the back and lays him down, bending his gawky legs into the seat well. She dives into the front and slams the door.

“Where to?” the cabbie eyes her.

“The nearest hospital!” Scully practically shouts, exasperated. From the backseat, she hears a low moan. 

“Scully? Scully?” Mulder rolls his head back and forth. Scully reaches back between the front seats to grasp his hand. “Scully, where am I?”

“I’m here, Mulder, I’m here.” She squeezes his hand and is relieved when he squeezes back. “Faster please,” she pleads with the cabbie. “Don’t worry about speed. This is a federal agent back here.”

“Scully,” Mulder croaks, “why am I wearing a suit?”

“Mulder, what’s the last thing you remember?” Scully’s practically sitting backward in her seat now, her seatbelt forgotten, up on her knees as she reaches toward him.

“It’s hazy,” Mulder groans. “My head is killing me. What happened?”

“You slipped on the steps, hit your head.” Scully explains. “I think you’ve got a concussion.”

“What steps?” 

“The Gallery steps.” Scully starts to worry a little more and tries to will the taxi to go faster by boring a hole into the side of the cabbie’s face with the intensity of her gaze.

“The Gallery?” Mulder’s confusion continues, “What were we doing there? I can’t seem to remember anything.”

“Just hang in there, Mulder,” Scully soothes him, “we’ll get you checked out in a minute.”


End file.
